


There For You

by EvieSmallwood, hannahberrie



Series: Shut Up, Kiss Me [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bickering, Feelings Realization, M/M, Pre-film, Richie is definitely not jealous okay, School Dances, and Eddie is definitely straight, and they are definitely not crushing on each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-29 13:23:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15074081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvieSmallwood/pseuds/EvieSmallwood, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahberrie/pseuds/hannahberrie
Summary: In which Eddie gets asked to the Sadie Hawkins Dance and Richie definitely doesn't care.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, we've teamed up to write a Reddie fic series! This series is based on our insanely large number of headcanons we've created together. The story will take place across five works, each chronicling a period in Reddie's lives. This first work is before the events of the movie, when they're around 6th grade. Thanks for reading!

****_Pretty_.

  
  
That’s the first coherent thought Richie Tozier has in regards to Eddie Kaspbrak.

  
  
It’s the first day of kindergarten; a sunny day—he remembers that, too, because the light that’d beamed down through the high windows of the school cafeteria had hit Eddie in that Just Right Way; the way that made his cheeks redder somehow and his hair turn all coppery.  
  
_Pretty_.

 

The thought is simple and instinctual, just like Richie’s decision to walk across the cafeteria and take a seat right next to Eddie. He’s sitting alone, the contents of his lunchbox laid out neatly before him—a sandwich and some baby carrots, both rigidly packaged in plastic wrap.

 

The sandwich is tuna. Richie immediately takes pity on him.

 

Richie plants himself into the chair next to Eddie. The small boy ( _small_ , Richie remembers that so clearly; he was even tinier than Richie and the way he shrunk back just made it worse) glances up at him, startled. He’s visibly jittery as he looks Richie over — eyes wide, leg pausing its continuous drumming, shaky fingers reaching out to grab his inhaler like a security blanket.

 

“Hi,” Richie says, grinning all stupid.

 

Eddie blinks at him. “Hi,” he mumbles back, voice barely audible over the clamor of the other kids around them.  

 

Richie sets his own lunchbox down before reaching across to grab Eddie’s sandwich without a second thought. “Does your mom hate you, or something?” He asks, examining it with a crinkled nose.

 

At this, Eddie seems to snap out of his timid daze. He lets out a huff that’s somehow both exasperated and defensive, like _everyone_ is on him about his lunch. “It’s just tuna,” he says crossly.

 

“On _wheat_ bread?” Richie gags, sticking out his tongue.

 

“It’s _good for you_.”

 

“You know what else is good for you?” Richie reaches into his lunchbox and obtains a slightly smushed bag of animal crackers. He holds them out, triumphant.

 

Eddie only seems more infuriated. He scowls. “That’s junk food,” he says smartly. “You can get all kinds of diseases from that stuff. Like dia-bee-tees. My mom told me.”

 

“Uh-uh,” Richie rips it open, “Your mom is dumb. These are good for you, trust me.”

 

Eddie still frowns, but with a noticeable amount of hesitation. “Are you sure?”

 

“I’m _positive._ Open your hand.”

 

Eddie does. Several almost-broken crackers fall into his palm, along with a dusting of crumbs. Eddie promptly lies them out on the table before him, sorting them into their respective categories.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“I wanna see the different kinds!” Eddie explains defensively.

 

Richie watches Eddie carefully sort the crackers, using the time as an excuse to examine him more closely. His hair, still catching the sunlight, is neatly combed back; not a strand out of place. He has a faint smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. As he focuses on sorting everything, he bites down on his tongue, which is peeking out of the side of his mouth.

 

When Eddie finishes, Richie grabs a cracker from one of the piles—it looks like an elephant, judging by the vague trunk-looking thing on the end. “Moo!”

 

“No!” Eddie snatches it back and places it with the others of its kind. “ _This_ one is a cow, see?”

 

“It looks like a blob.”

 

“It’s a _cow_. And this one is a dog.”

 

Richie takes it, examining the shape. “Moo,” he says again, grinning mischievously.

 

Eddie groans, fully annoyed. “That’s not the right _sound_ ,” he says sternly, looking Richie right in the eyes, “We just talked about this in class! Didn’t you listen?”

 

“Nah, I was too busy making spitwads to shoot at Henry Bowers.”

 

At this, Eddie’s face seems to change. He studies Richie more intently. “You shouldn’t do that,” he says after moment’s thought, “he’s probably going to get really mad.”

 

“So?” Richie shrugs, “I’m not scared of him.”

 

“Yeah right,” Eddie rolls his eyes, returning his attention to his lunch.

 

“No, really,” Richie says. “I’m totally gonna rip him to shreds one day, you’ll see.”

 

A snort. “No way you could ever, he’s like two times as big as you.”

 

Richie pokes his side. “Then we’ll fight him together. We can like, throw your sandwich at his head or something—or worse, make him eat it! He’d probably choke and die.”

 

Eddie, unable to stop himself, bursts out laughing. His eyes sparkle as he beams up at Richie gratefully. “You’re dumb,” he says.

 

“Maybe,” Richie shrugs again, “You wanna be friends?”

 

He grins, and again Richie has that fleeting thought of _pretty._ “Yeah, okay.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You know what’s dumb?”

 

There’s a scraping noise as Eddie pulls a chair back from the table—the same one the four of them always eat at; way in the back corner of the cafeteria where no one will bother them.

 

“You,” Richie says, not even bothering to close his mouth as he chews.

 

“ _No_ ,” Eddie drops down next to Richie. “This stupid Sadie Hawkins dance, that’s what. I mean, what’s the point?”

 

“To h-have fun?” Bill pipes up.

 

“But it’s not like anyone is ever gonna ask any of us,” Eddie goes on. “It’s just a stupid waste of time and money. Think of all the _other_ stuff the school could spend it on.”

 

Stan rolls his eyes. “If you’re not going, why do you care?”

 

Richie chooses this moment to look at Eddie, knowing exactly what he’ll see; brow scrunched up, nose wrinkled, all _excuse me_ and _how dare you_ —all of it is just a nice front to mask the fact that _hey, Stan has a point._

 

“Mr. Burns could get a new projector, or Mrs. Murray could buy new uniforms for the cheerleaders—”

 

“Or your mom could buy a new ass,” Richie interrupts. “Cool your tits and eat your lunch, Eds.”

 

Eddie scowls. Richie knows there’s a part of him that wants to throw his food in the garbage out of pure spite, but his hunger wins over in the end. He unpacks his usual crap; a bologna sandwich (on wheat), celery sticks, and milk.

 

It’s so _sad_.

 

“Your mom pack it for you?”

 

“Fuck you,” Eddie retorts offhandedly. He looks up at Stan. “Do you want your ranch?”

 

Stan shakes his head, mouth full, and slides it over.

 

“ _Ooo_ , mixing it up a little,” Richie leans over, pinching Eddie’s cheek. “Bold move, Eds. You know that stuff is high in cholesterol, right?”

 

“Sodium, dumbass,” Eddie snaps. “And _don’t_ call me ‘Eds.’”

 

“Sure thing, Eds.”

 

Eddie nudges his side with a bony elbow, which Richie returns. Bill, knowing how it can go on (and on, and on…) kicks Richie’s foot under the table. Richie hisses, throwing him a wounded look.

 

“S-Sorry,” Bill shrugs, looking completely unapologetic. “Accident.”

 

“Well I, for one, agree with Eddie,” Stan says.

 

Eddie straightens. “Thank you, Stanley.”

 

“It seems stupid,” he goes on. “And I’ve heard they aren’t that great, anyway. It’s just a bunch of kids in a sweaty gym, which is _gross_.”

 

Richie takes his glasses off and squints at each of them. He gives the lenses a good rub, places them back on his face, and keeps squinting. “Am I seeing this correctly? Is my perception accurate? Is it my understanding that the three of you _don’t_ want to go to this dance?”

 

“That’s literally what we just said,” Stan snaps.

 

“But it’ll be fun!” Richie slaps his hand against the table, causing all of their milk cartons to rattle. Bill’s spills over, barely touched; the liquid runs down onto the floor and pools there.

 

“D-Damn it, Richie!”

 

“No one’ll ask us anyway,” Stan goes on, tastefully ignoring the fact that Bill’s stealing all of his napkins.

 

“So we crash it!” Richie throws his hands up. “It’ll be a great time! We could totally spike the punch—”

 

“Uh, no.”

 

“Fuck me, you guys are dull,” Richie shakes his head in absolute wonderment. “What are you gonna do, Eddie? Sit at home in your curlers and watch _Chips?_ ”

 

Eddie glares. His cheeks flush, which means he’s really getting worked up. Pretty soon here he’ll blow, which’ll be a real good chuck if Richie says so himself.

 

He sets his sandwich down, all humouring. “And what are _you_ gonna do, Richie? Show up alone and make an idiot out of yourself?”

 

“Nah,” Richie shrugs, “I’ll take your mom.”

 

Eddie shoves him for real. “You’re an asshole.”

 

Richie laughs; loud and clear (and to Eddie, it always seems to make all the other sounds go dull, if even for just a split second—but that’s just how it’s always been, and he’s _pissed_ so who _cares_ ).

 

“Well it’d be better than going with you—”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

They all freeze, even Bill under the table. Richie blinks up at the new voice—a girl, a real one, _holy shit_. She’s standing by their table and _looking_ at them, like, actually _acknowledging they exist._

 

“What the fuck,” Richie says.

 

Eddie whacks his arm.

 

Stan clears his throat. “Can we help you?”

 

“Yeah, um,” her hip juts out and she smacks her gum, losing all that rigid tension—the kind that must come from being near _losers_. “I’m Tiffany, this is from Sarah. It’s for you.”

 

A note is dropped into Eddie’s lap.

 

Richie blinks. Then he starts to grin. “You’re sure? For Eddie?”

 

“ _Shut up_ ,” Eddie hisses.

 

Tiffany shrugs. “Sarah thinks you’re cute and wants to go to the dance with you.”

 

She says it like it’s the most outlandish thing, which only makes Richie laugh more. Eddie’s face is totally flaming. He opens the note with shaking hands while they all gape.

 

In pink glittery gel pen, there are words written. The handwriting is all girly and loopy, but Richie can still make it out. _Do you want to go to the dance with me? Check ‘Yes’ or ‘No’._

 

Below that there’s a perfectly drawn heart with an arrow shot through it.

 

Eddie glances at Richie, who’s leaning over his shoulder. He turns so fast their faces almost touch. “ _What do I do?!_ ”

 

“Say yes,” Richie pokes him. “Duh.”

 

Eddie swallows. He looks like he really might be sick. Richie’s laughing so much no sound is coming out. Stan and Bill are sitting in stunned silence, mouths slightly agape.

 

Tiffany blows a bright pink bubble. It pops, and they all jump.

 

“Pen?”

 

Stan blinks at Eddie. “Huh?”

 

“Do you have a pen?”

 

He probably meant it to be forceful, but it just comes out sounding small and strangled. Richie puts a hand on Eddie’s shoulder to stabilise himself, gasping for air.

 

Bill starts rummaging through his bag, looking stunned, like he can’t quite believe any of this is happening.

 

Thirty seconds or so of searching go by. Stan blushes, looking at Tiffany. “Can’t you just tell her yourself?”

 

“What am I, a peasant?”

 

“Here!”

 

A pencil is passed over. “Fuck!” Richie exclaims; he really can’t help it, _jesus god_ there’s a Troll cap on the end, how is he supposed to keep it in?!

 

He’s so busy trying not to die he doesn’t see which answer Eddie checks. Tiffany takes the note and goes back to her table, blonde hair swishing down her back.

 

Bill asks for him; “W-What did you s-say?!”

 

“Isaidyes,” Eddie swallows, squeezing his eyes shut. “I said yes.”

 

They all look over to the table—the one in the middle of the room, where all the popular girls sit—and watch Sarah’s face light up. She grabs Tiffany’s hand and says something. Tiffany rolls her eyes and sits down.

 

Really, Sarah’s not bad looking. She always wears her hair in ribbons. That’s all Richie really knows about her; different colors every day of the week, different styles (today, it’s two braids and yellow). Always the same shiny brown locks.

 

Richie gets a good squint at her. She glances over at them in the same moment and looks away quickly, probably totally weirded out.

 

Richie gives a gleeful laugh and slaps Eddie on the back. “Holy shit, Eds!”

 

“Don’t,” Eddie jolts. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”

 

“What?! Why? You’re going on a _date_ with Sarah Peterson! That’s so cool!”

 

As he says it, though—as the words roll off his tongue, and he puts it together in his mind (Eddie Kaspbrak and Sarah Peterson)—there’s something very decidedly _un_ cool and _not right_ about it.

 

Richie chooses to ignore it, pushing it to the back of his mind with all of the rest of those unwanted and weird things.

 

“C-congrats Eddie!” Bill smiles, placing a sopping pile of chocolate-milk drenched napkins onto his lunch tray.

 

“I can’t believe Eddie’s the first of us to get a date,” Stan says evenly. It’s kind of hard to tell whether the comment is meant to be degrading or admiring.

 

Eddie’s shrinking in his seat, cheeks pink. He makes a point of staring down at his lunch, clearly avoiding making eye contact with the popular girls.

 

“ _I_ can’t believe Eddie said yes,” Richie cuts in, “Sarah isn’t even hot.”

 

Stan inhales sharply, throwing a reprimanding glare.

 

Eddie turns to glare at Richie incredulously. “You _told_ me to say ‘yes’!” He hisses, as if he’s worried that the girls will somehow hear him from all the way across the cafeteria.

 

“Yeah, cuz it was fuckin’ funny,” Richie giggles. “’Sides, you’ll be fine.”

 

“W-Well, I think sh-she’s very pretty, E-Eddie,” Bill states civilly.

 

Unexpectedly, this doesn’t seem to reassure Eddie that much. He pouts as he nods resignedly, turning his attention back to his lunch. “I guess,” he grumbles, taking a bite of his bologna sandwich.

 

Richie finds himself squirming in his seat a little. The uncomfortable feeling lurking in the back of his mind is becoming more and more prominent by the second. He can see Sarah sitting at her table, absolutely _beaming_ as she whispers excitedly to her friends.

 

Next weekend, she’s going to be smiling at Eddie like that, and holding his hand, and dancing with him in a sweaty gym, and who knows whatever the fuck else.

 

“You know, as much as I hate to admit it, I think you guys were right,” Richie announces, “Dances are lame. We should just skip.”

 

“But Eddie has a _date!”_ Stan exclaims, in the same frank tone of voice that he’d probably use to say _things fall because of_ gravity, _Richie._

 

Eddie shakes his head, bitterly tossing his celery. “Don’t call it that.”

 

“But that’s what it is,” Richie huffs. “God, you’re really gonna vomit, huh?”

 

“ _No_ ,” Eddie leans away from his food. “I’m fine. It’s no big deal, right? It’s just a stupid, meaningless dance. She’ll probably just ignore me the whole time, anyway.”

 

 _She’d be stupid to_ , Richie thinks. It’s sudden; it’s one of those _weird_ thoughts—the ones too weird to say.

 

“She won’t ignore y-you, Eddie,” Bill assures. “You’re c-cool.”

 

Eddie tries for a smile (it’s not a real one, Richie _knows_ that one, but Bill smiles back anyway and somewhere deep down Richie feels _satisfied_ that Bill can’t tell). “Thanks, Bill.”

 

“N-No problem.”

 

“Anyway,” Richie huffs, “We still on for bowling tonight?”

 

“I-I h-have plans with G-Georgie,” Bill says with an apologetic smile, “W-we’re going to the park.”

 

“I can’t tonight,” Stan adds, “I have to practice my Torah reading. You already knew that, Richie.”

 

Richie definitely did. Bill and Georgie went to the park every Thursday afternoon, it was some kind of weird sappy tradition they had. Also, Stan would never shut the fuck up about how his bar mitzvah was coming up next year, and how he was going to become a ‘real man’ before the rest of them, so it was literally in-fucking-possible to forget that he practiced his readings every Thursday.

 

“Well, shit,” Richie sighs, hopefully with enough genuine-sounding remorse, “Guess it’s just gonna be me and you, Spaghetti-Man.”

 

Eddie rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. “Great,” he says flatly, “That’s gonna be the perfect way to end this terrible day.”

 

“Aw, c’mon, Eds,” Richie croons, poking Eddie’s cheek, “You’re gonna love it.” When Eddie only gives him a blank stare in response, Richie proceeds to poke Eddie’s sides — _right_ where he knows he’s ticklish.

 

“S-Stop!” Eddie exclaims, swatting at Richie’s hands.

 

“It’ll be like a date!” Richie teases with a grin, “Practice for your _real_ one, right?!”

 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “You’re so stupid.”

 

“We gotta make it official though,” Richie continues, barely suppressing his laughter, “Bill, where’s that fucking Troll pencil of yours?”

 

Bill’s cheeks flush red. “T-That’s Georgie’s,” he says quickly.

 

“Bullshit, I was with you when you bought it,” Richie snorts. At this, Stan and Eddie have to do their best to fight back their own laughs.

 

“F-fuck off,” Bill mumbles, though before long he’s smiling with the rest of them.

 

“Well, I’m fucking done with this garbage,” Richie announces, balling up the remains of his lunch. “C’mon, it’s only ten minutes till class, let’s motor.”

 

The others nod and follow his lead. They rise up from their seats and head to the trash cans, deposing the remnants of their lunches.

 

“Try not to kill each other tonight,” Stan says as they exit the cafeteria and head back to their lockers.

 

“Can’t make any promises,” Eddie grumbles, eyeing Richie warningly.

 

“You worry too much, Stanley,” Richie sighs, slinging an arm over Eddie’s shoulder, “Eds and I are going to be just fine. We’re great at handling balls.”

 

If Eddie was a cartoon character, he’d probably have steam coming out of his ears, or maybe he’d just totally explode. “You’re not fucking funny!” He exclaims brashly, shoving Richie’s arm off of him.

 

“I’m fucking _hilarious_ , Eds,” Richie gives his nose a poke.

 

Eddie jerks away. “I can’t believe I’m going anywhere with you.”

 

“Uh huh,” Richie hums indifferently, “So, I’ll pick you up at 6?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Sweet.”

 

* * *

 

 

‘Picking Eddie up,’ really just consists of Richie biking to Eddie’s house and waiting in his driveway. He would ring the doorbell, but according to Eddie, he _Shouldn’t Do That_ because he doesn’t want Richie to _Say Something Inappropriate to His Mom_.

 

Thankfully, the wait isn’t that bad. It’s a pleasantly warm spring evening, the kind that has the neighbor kids playing in their backyards, crickets chirping soothingly, indigo skies, and peach clouds.

 

Richie can’t help but wonder whether he’s going to be in this exact same spot next Saturday, waiting to bike with Eddie to the dance. To his _date._

 

He probably won’t be though. Eddie’s probably going to pick her up. That’s how dates went right? You drove to the girl’s house, gave her some flowers or some shit, and promised to have her home by 10.

 

Only, Eddie’s twelve. God, his _mom_ will probably drive him. Richie can’t help but snort aloud at the thought. If there’s any way to crash a date, it’s definitely by subjecting said date to one-on-one time with Sonia Kaspbrak.

 

Not that Richie _wants_ Eddie’s date to go badly. It’d just be kinda funny if it did.

 

Richie pushes aside these thoughts with a frown, telling himself not to care, because he doesn’t. He definitely doesn’t care that Eddie’s going to the Sadie Hawkins Dance with a girl. He doesn’t care that it’s totally uncool, or that Eddie could do way better than some girl who still thinks it’s cool to wear ribbons in the 6th-fucking-grade, or that the only reason this is even happening in the first place is because Richie told him to.

 

The door opens, cutting off Richie’s train of thought, and Eddie’s halfway out before Dear Old Mrs. K calls something out to him.

 

“Yeah, Ma!” He says. There’s a pause, and then he’s ducking back inside for a split second before re-emerging.

 

“You give her a big kiss for me, Eds?”

 

Eddie gives him That Look; the one that means he’s about to snap. “Fuck off, Richie.”

 

“You’re so _slow_ ,” Richie gripes as Eddie grabs his bike from where it’s propped against the front porch, “I could’ve laid your mom in the time it took you to get out here.”

 

“It was like two minutes,” Eddie says, walking his bike down the front steps and toward Richie, “You really think you can go that quick?”

 

“Yeah,” Richie replies, unfazed, “That’s why they call it a _quickie_ , Eds.”

 

“I’ll literally go back inside,” Eddie scowls warningly.

 

“Fine!” Richie shrugs, “Have fun spending the night in your mom’s hellhole.”

 

“Richie!”

 

“I mean your _house_.”

 

“It’s not funny,” Eddie says, even though he’s kind of smiling. “You’re a complete idiot.”

 

“Maybe,” Richie grins, “But those balls aren’t going to bowl themselves, so hurry your ass up.”

 

“I swear to _god,_ Richie, if you make one more joke about balls —”

 

“You’ll head right back home to snuggle with your mom and watch _Cheers,_ got it.”

 

“ _Chips_ ,” Eddie corrects.

 

“Do you think I give a fuck what your mom wastes her time on?!”

 

“Well _you’re_ the one who always brings her up.”

 

“And she brings _me_ up, if you know what I mean.”

 

Eddie stops, so Richie does too. They look at each other for a solid minute before Eddie bursts out laughing. “I hate you,” he says decidedly. “You’re the worst person _ever_.”

 

Richie winks. “And I love ya’ too, Eddie Spaghetti.”

 

Eddie smiles and rolls his eyes in response.

 

With that, they finally start biking to the bowling alley downtown. The alley isn’t anything remarkable — it’s small, kinda run-down, and pretty shitty, just like most places in Derry. There are only 8 lanes, and on one them the pins always get jammed. _But,_ it has the best pizza in town (Richie’s opinion, not any of his friends’) and they usually play good music, so it’s not a _complete_ dump. Plus, it’s the only bowling alley around, so it’s not like they’ve got any other options.

 

The boys park their bikes along the side of the building. The wall is graffitied with miscellaneous symbols and the names of people to call for ‘a good time.’  

 

“This place is filthy,” Eddie complains as he and Richie walk toward the entrance.

 

“It’s still cleaner than your mom’s vagina,” Richie replies instinctively.

 

Eddie takes a deep breath instead of speaking. Then, without even looking at Richie, pushes inside the alley.

 

“Uh,” Richie stares after him, “ _rude_.”

 

“Uh,” Eddie replies, glancing over his shoulder, “Don’t care.”

 

“Jesus,” Richie huffs, quickening his pace to catch up with Eddie, “You’re so mean to me, Eds. You better not treat your date like this.”

 

“Stop calling it that,” Eddie grumbles.

 

“Well, what would _you_ call it, then?”

 

Eddie hesitates. “Two people…who barely know each other…hanging out.”

 

“Wow,” Richie smirks, “That’s so romantic.”

 

“Fuck _off_ ,” Eddie gives him a shove. “I’m gonna go get the shoes, you get a lane.”

 

“Make sure you get me a size 20,” Richie requests, “I had a growth spurt.”

 

“The fuck you did,” Eddie scoffs as he heads to the shoe counter.

 

Richie heads to the main desk and pays for a lane for the two of them (thankfully, they don’t get the one that jams). Richie takes one of the printed scoreboard pages and a pencil before heading to their lane. The bowling alley, instead of having booths or tables like a normal one probably would, just has a series of mismatched chairs placed in front of every lane. Richie takes a seat in one of the shittier ones, leaving the nice one beside it for Eddie.

 

Eddie comes back over just as Richie’s writing their names onto the card. He’s gotten down _B-I-G-D-I-C_ when Eddie snatches it from his hands.

 

“Oh my _god_ , Richie!”

 

“Oh, c’mon, it’d be _funny_ ,” he protests.

 

Eddie grabs the pencil. He erases the letters and scratches in something else, smiling to himself. Then he hands it back.

 

 _Dumbass_.

 

Richie scoffs. “That’s completely uncalled for!”

 

“It’s fitting,” Eddie argues.

 

“Fine,” Richie snaps. “Fine!” He takes the pencil and jots down a name for Eddie; a _fitting_ one, one that’ll no doubt annoy the fuck out of him.

 

“ _Cuteass?!_ ”

 

“That’s right,” Richie nods, standing  up to pinch Eddie’s cheek, “cuz you’re _cute, cute, cute!_ ”

 

“And you’re an idiot,” Eddie gripes, “Take your shoes.” Eddie removes the pair of shoes he’s had tucked under his arm and shoves them toward Richie’s chest.

 

Richie, somewhat uncharacteristicly, doesn’t have a retort on hand. Instead, he takes the bowling shoes and slips them on without another word. As much as he loves teasing Eds, even he has to admit that it can be a little _much_ after awhile. Sometimes it feels like all their bickering is just a front — like it keeps them at a distance from each other, keeps them from _something else_.

 

Other times Richie thinks thoughts like that are full of shit.

 

“Alright,” Eddie says, giving Richie a little nudge, “You’re up first.”

 

Richie straightens up and cracks his knuckles, grinning when Eddie grimances at the sound. “Alright, Eddie. Prepare to watch a master work.”

 

Eddie snorts and gives Richie a teasing smile. “A master? Last time we came here you bowled an 80!”

 

“Better than the 69 your mom got.”

 

Eddie doesn’t reply, but looks out at the pins instead. For a second, Richie wonders if he feels it, too; that _something_ underneath, but then he reaches out and whacks Richie upside the head. “ _Bowl,_ dipshit.”

 

“Alright, alright!” Richie replies, grabbing a ball from the rack, “Don’t get your panties in a knot, Eds.”

 

“You mean like the one you’ve got in the front, there?”

 

Richie turns around so fast he almost drops the ball on his own foot. “Did you just make a dick joke?!”

 

Eddie smiles, seeming torn between being both pride and ashamed of himself. “I guess you’re rubbing off on me.”

 

Richie opens his mouth, _so_ ready to get off on the good one that pops into his head at the words, but then closes it. “Huh.”

 

Eddie shakes his head and steps forward. He places his hands on Richie’s back and literally pushes him closer to the lane. “Now hurry up already!”

 

“Fine, god!”

 

They finally start the game, and it ends up going pretty well, especially considering that it’s _them._ As the night goes on, their bickering becomes less frequent, and when Richie gets a strike on the fourth round, Eddie _actually_ applauds him.

 

“Is that supposed to be sarcastic?” Richie asks as he struts back over to Eddie.

 

Eddie, seated in one of the chairs, shakes his head. “No! You were just actually cool, for once.”

 

Richie gives an over-exaggerated blink in response. He cups his ear and kneels before Eddie’s chair, looking at him skeptically. “Did I hear that right?” He asks, “Did _Eddie Kaspbrak_ just admit that I’m cool?”

 

“Fuck off,” Eddie says, and then without hesitation reaches out to grab at Richie’s ear. He pinches, _hard_.

 

“ _Ah!_ What the hell, let go!”

 

“Nope,” Eddie smiles.

 

“Who knew you were so handsy, Eds,” Richie snarks, trying his best to squirm out of Eddie’s grasp.

 

“I’ll let go if you promise to stop making dick jokes,” Eddie says.

 

Richie pauses, weighs out his options. On the one hand, he could totally just make another dick joke, and Eddie would explode, and Richie would get some pretty good chucks. On the other hand, he could let it go, they could move on with the game, and then

 

(that _something_ )

 

Eddie would finally settle down.

 

“I promise,” Richie finally settles on.

 

“Really?” Eddie actually looks a little shocked. He lets go too. “Huh.”

 

“Yeah, really,” Richie replies, feeling stupidly self-conscious all of the sudden, “Now get in there, it’s your turn.”

 

Their game continues without any dick jokes, as promised. Richie makes a point to avoid any jokes about Mrs. K too. Sure, Eddie didn’t specifically ask for that, but Richie figures that it’d probably be better to play it safe.

 

Without Eddie wanting to kill him every two seconds, it’s actually kind of pleasant. Eddie manages to get some spares, and every time he does he turns to look back at Richie with this adorably satisfied smile. It’s actually, genuinely, kinda cute.

 

In like, a brotherly way, obviously. Not like in a Sarah Peterson way (even though she’s _not_ that cute).

 

 _God,_ why is he still thinking about Sarah? He _doesn’t_ care.

 

Thankfully, Richie doesn’t think about Sarah for the rest of the game. She only comes back into his thoughts after the game (which Eddie wins), when he and Eddie are seated at one of the tables by the concessions counter, munching away on slices of pizza.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Eddie looks up from his greasy paper plate, startled. “What?”

 

“Those are on there for a reason,” Richie says, gesturing to the pepperonis Eddie had picked off, frowning with distaste as he did so.

 

“I don’t like them,” Eddie says simply.

 

“Why not?!”

 

“They’re too spicy!”

 

“ _God_ , you’re a wuss,” Richie sighs, “You know that you’re like, the most neurotic person about food ever?”

 

“Well _some of us_ don’t just inhale whatever’s on our plate.”

 

“I bet Sarah _loves_ pepperoni pizza,” Richie blurts out. He literally has no-fucking-clue why, it just comes out. Probably because he doesn’t have a filter (that’s what his mom always says anyway) and also because he just kinda really wants to. “I bet her breath smells like pepperoni.”

 

“Ew!” Eddie scowls, looking like he’s about to gag at the thought, “What the fuck?”

 

“Just saying,” Richie shrugs, “I saw her scarfing that shit down last Friday and wanted to ralph on my own lunch.”

 

“Oh, god,” Eddie groans. His brow wrinkles with worry as he pauses in his pepperoni-extraction, “Do you think she’s going to want me to kiss her?”

 

Richie feels his gut lurch, but that’s probably just because he’s scarfed down 5 slices of pizza (and counting). He shifts in his seat and suddenly there’s this weight settling on him—with the way Eddie looks, and the way he _feels_.

 

“Well… you don’t have to if you don’t want to, you know.”

 

Eddie bites his lip. “But she’s like, popular. Plus I don’t wanna hurt her feelings.”

 

“So you’d really just kiss her?”

 

“It’s not like it would mean anything.”

 

“It wouldn’t?” Richie asks, trying to sound as casual ( _not caring_ ) as possible.

 

“I mean,” Eddie replies, looking somewhat restless, “I don’t...I don’t have a crush on her, I don’t think.”

 

Richie quirks an eyebrow. “You can’t tell?”

 

Eddie blushes and averts his gaze. “Yeah? No? I mean, I dunno — I barely know her, Rich!”

 

“Well, I mean, do you think she’s _cute?_ ”

 

“She’s...fine,” Eddie replies noncommittally. His voice is kinda flat and detached. It’s the same tone he uses when his mom asks him whether he wants green bean or tuna noodle casserole for dinner (on the rare evenings Richie’s _actually_ invited to eat with the Kaspbraks).

 

“Fine,” Richie echoes. “What does that mean?”

 

“I don’t know!” Eddie explodes. He knocks his plate and a pepperoni falls onto the table. “Ugh, gross.”

 

“I dare you to eat it.”

 

“Fuck _you_ ,” Eddie scowls.

 

Richie smirks, reaches across the table to grab it, and tosses it into his mouth.

 

Eddie grimaces. “You’re disgusting.”

 

“Hey, I’m not the one you’re gonna be kissing,” Richie teases.

 

“Yeah, thank god,” Eddie grumbles, “Also, I’m _not_ kissing her.”

 

Richie shrugs, but he feels a little…relieved? “If you say so, Eds.”

 

Eddie nods, seemingly more to himself than to Richie, and turns his attention back to his pepperoni disposal. As they eat in a comfortable silence, their feet kinda knock against each other under the table. It’s probably just an accident, but maybe, possibly, potentially —

 

— it’s _something._

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the night of dance, Eddie's freaking out, and Richie may or may not be looking really, super good.

“You have your inhaler?”

  
  
“ _Ma_ ,” Eddie throws his head back, grip tightening on the car door that he’s just itching to close in her face. “I have it.”

  
  
Sonia isn’t done yet, though. She leans forward, face ruddy from nerves. “You know not to eat the food there, right? That’s how you get sick, and you never know what’s in it.”

  
  
_Yes, please, let there be arsenic in the punch. Please._

  
  
“Okay, Ma.”

  
  
“And wash your hands—”

  
  
“Mrs. Kaspbrak?” Sarah ducks her head down so that his mom can see her; she’s smiling politely, the way she has all evening. Eddie doesn’t know her well enough to tell if she’s really just nice or has a lot of practice pretending. “We’re going to be late,” she says.

  
  
Sonia swallows. “Alright, then. Have fun, you two.”

  
  
She looks like she might puke, which would be funny if Eddie didn’t feel the same way.

  
  
He closes the car door, sealing his doom. His mom drives away after what seems like momentary hesitation.

 

The sounds of muffled voices and music filter out of the school gym and out to the front steps where Eddie and Sarah stand. The night is chilly — not painfully so, but enough to leave Eddie’s arms covered in goosebumps (though, to be fair, that could just be because he’s nervous as hell).

  
  
Eddie turns to his… _casual acquaintance? date?_ The latter thought makes his stomach churn, but he tries his best to push it aside and smile at her. “Thanks.”

  
  
Sarah shrugs. “You’re welcome.”

 

Really, she doesn’t look _bad_ ; her hair is tied back with a powder blue ribbon that matches the simple, yet flattering dress she’s wearing. She has on a hint of sparkly eyeshadow that shimmers as she looks him over, and she kinda smells like Juicy Fruit bubblegum.

 

It all kind of leaves Eddie feeling lightheaded, and not in the way it’s probably supposed to.

 

Maybe it’s because they’re standing on the front schoolsteps, but Eddie can’t help but feel like he’s in class right now. Looking at Sarah, at how she’s smiling all expectantly at him and fluttering her glittery lashes, makes him feel like he’s being tested. Like, he’s trying to remember how he’s supposed to respond and what the right and wrong answers are.

 

The wrong answer is probably to keep standing here like an idiot, so he gestures toward the school (still definitely looking like a complete moron). “Um, should we go inside?”

 

“Okay,” Sarah says. She keeps smiling, even when she turns and starts to take slow steps toward the building. In a way (with how she sort of leans toward him as they walk, brushing their shoulders together), it reminds him of how Hollywood actresses sort of float along in movies, only Sarah’s not as good at it, and she’s not standing next to Humphrey Bogart or Cary Grant.

 

She probably wants him to talk. He’s _supposed_ to talk; supposed to be interest _ed_ and interest _ing_.

 

Only he’s not, really. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing here.

 

Eddie opens the door for her, like Bill reminded him to earlier. Sarah brightens. “Thanks.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Eddie replies politely.

 

The music is so loud inside it almost feels tangible. It’s all around them, echoing off the floors and vibrating the walls a bit. It’s so _present_ it hardly leaves room for anything else. This isn’t a bad thing exactly, as it means Eddie isn’t required to say much as they walk to the gym together.

 

“It’s loud!” Sarah comments as they get closer to the gym. Her face is flushed as she raises delicate fingers to protect her ears.

 

“Yeah!” Eddie nods. Jesus, their conversations feel so... _stale._ Are all first dates like this? Maybe Eddie will just swear off dating forever, since it seems pretty overrated so far.

 

They finally reach the gym, which is packed to the brim. Eddie looks over the scene and, yup, Stan’s description was pretty accurate: it’s just a bunch of kids in a sweat-smelling room. There are a few decorations, but it’s just a few streamers and some balloons, really. There’s an upbeat _New Kids on the Block_ song pounding through the speakers that everyone’s either dancing to, listening to from the outskirts, or ignoring entirely.

 

Eddie scans the crowd, searching for his friends, but Sarah’s faster and her friends are closer. She lets out a squeal that could rival the music in ear-splitting volume before grabbing Eddie by the arm and yanking him off toward her group.

 

The popular girls — Tiffany Sanders, Greta Keene, Marcia Fadden, and Sally Mueller — all turn to beam at Sarah as she approaches them. They’re all dressed nearly identical to Sarah, albeit for the slightly different colors and variations to their dresses. They start squealing random shit like _oh my god,_ and _you look so cute_ and _I love your hair_ and basically disregarding Eddie entirely.

 

While they gush over each other’s outfits, Eddie takes the opportunity to continue looking for his own friends. There are so many bodies, so many things happening at once, it’s not an easy feat. The gym is just a blur of moving people and multi-coloured lights that flash sporadically. Eddie feels a little nauseous from it all. After what feels like ages, he finally spots Richie, Stan, and Bill. They’re across the room, sitting at a table and chatting over cups of fruit punch.

 

Bill and Stan are both wearing neatly pressed button-up shirts tucked into their slacks. Bill is studying the crowd with a vague interest while Stan adjusts his yamaka, only to hastily grab for it as it almost slips off a moment later.

 

Richie, though… Richie looks different. Even with the usual laid-back attitude (slouching in his chair, slightly spaced out), there’s something about him that peaks Eddie’s interest. His hair is gelled back and out of his face in a stylish pompadour that makes him look, like, _cooler_ (not that he’d ever admit that to Richie’s face, ever). As Richie talks to Stan and Bill, he makes animated hand gestures, and even from across the gym Eddie can tell that some of them are meant to be obscene.

 

 _Idiot,_ Eddie thinks, and yet he finds himself smiling at Richie all the same.

 

It really kinda sucks that the one time Eddie’s actually _smiling_ at Richie is exact moment Richie decides to turn around, glance over his shoulder, and make eye contact with him. Richie grins back as his eyes light up like it’s Christmas morning or something.

 

He mouths something. Eddie squints. ‘What?’ he mouths back.

 

Richie points to Eddie, then to Sarah, before using one hand to make an ‘O’ with his thumb and pointer fingers. He uses his other pointer finger and makes a fucking motion that causes Eddie to both blush with anger and embarrassment. His eyebrows quirk up teasingly, signaling that this is meant to be a question.

 

 _‘No!’_ Eddie mouths back, giving Richie a dirty look.

 

Richie only grins in response, looking absolutely ecstatic at his own sense of humor.  

 

 _What a moron_ , Eddie thinks, biting down on his lip. He won’t give Richie the satisfaction of knowing that he’s sort of kind of funny, in the dumbest way possible.

 

_Or that he kinda looks really, super good right now._

 

The thought comes without warning. It nearly causes Eddie to choke, because _what the fuck_ kind of thought is that? Richie literally never looks good. His glasses are always a little off-balance, and his knees are usually scuffed up and sporting Looney Tunes band-aids. He only bothers to comb his hair like, once a week, and Eddie _literally_ saw him eat a pepperoni off a dirty bowling alley table less than a week ago.

 

And yet, despite all that, as Eddie looks at Richie — Richie with his slicked-back hair, his nice button-up shirt, smiling face illuminated by the passing lights of the disco ball — he feels his heart skip a beat.

 

And _that_ , accompanied by the odd way his stomach settles upon the sight of his best friend (or maybe, more likely, it was just seeing all of them that had comforted him), throws Eddie off balance.

 

“Are you okay, Edward?”

 

 _Edward_. God, it’s the third time Sarah’s called him that. Not even his own _mother_ calls him Edward.

 

“I’m fine,” Eddie says. Sarah seems to buy it, despite how small and strangled his voice sounds; her hand falls from his arm and her attention snaps back to Greta, who’s openly bitching about the lack of effort that was put into the decor.

 

“God, it’s just so _ugly_ in here,” she gripes. “And it _smells._ Like, couldn’t they have invested in air fresheners?”

 

Tiffany blows a bubble with her gum and shrugs. “It’s not like we’re in high school, Greta, chill out.”

 

“Chill out?! _Chill out?!_ I could’ve done a better job in my sleep, Tiffany!”

 

And that’s when Eddie remembers that _hey, Sarah’s on the dance committee_.

 

He glances at her, taking in the way her smile seems to falter at every harsh word that comes tumbling from Greta’s overly-glossed lips.

 

Eddie swallows. He nudges her side.

 

Sarah blinks, and that pleasant facade falls back into place. “Yeah?”

 

“Hey, um, did you wanna go say hi to my friends?”

 

Something like relief floods her features. “Sure,” she says.

 

Eddie nods. He grabs her wrist, not her hand; one because he doesn’t want to be presumptuous and two, because he really just doesn’t want to—for some reason.

 

He leads her through the crowds and over to the table the other Losers have claimed. Richie’s disappeared, for whatever reason. As they approach, Stan nudges Bill and they both look over.

 

“H-Hey, Eddie, how’s it g-goin?”

 

“Alright,” Eddie says, quickly letting go of Sarah. “Where’d Richie go?”

 

“He went to get more punch,” Stan rolls his eyes. “He’s gonna piss his pants if he keeps it up.”

 

Bill elbows Stan in the side. “ _G-Girl_ ,” he hisses, nodding to Sarah.

 

Eddie feels a flash of something — disappointment, maybe — but he chooses to ignore it. If Richie was here, he’d probably just be making even more sex jokes and weirding Sarah out.

 

He takes a deep breath. “This is Sarah,” he says, gesturing vaguely toward her.

 

Sarah lifts a hand and gives a small wave.

 

“I-I’m Bill,” Bill says, “this is Stan—”

 

“And I’m Dick,” says a voice— _that_ voice. Richie slings an arm over Eddie’s shoulders, smiling like a complete asshole. Up close, he smells like fruit punch and his dad’s cologne. It’s kind of jarring, actually, but Eddie can’t put his finger on why.

 

Sarah blinks. “Dick,” she repeats. “Hi.”

 

Richie gives a little giggle. “I _love_ meeting new people,” he mutters to Eddie.

 

His breath tickles Eddie’s ear, and Eddie feels himself shiver — wait, no, _shudder._ Yeah. He leans away from Richie, but doesn’t pull out of his embrace completely.

 

_(For whatever reason.)_

 

“So, you taking good care of Eddie-bear?” Richie asks Sarah, voice dry. As he talks, he idly runs his finger up and down Eddie’s shoulder. It’s mildly distracting.

 

Sarah blinks. “Um…”

 

“Ignore him,” Eddie says quickly, scowling up at Richie. Not because of Sarah, but because of _Eddie-bear._ Out of all of Richie’s nicknames, that one definitely has to be the worst.

 

“He’s just being an idiot,” Stan pipes up, saying what Eddie can’t (or sort of kind of _doesn’t want to_ ).

 

“A-And he just likes to talk,” Bill adds helpfully.

 

Richie scoffs at this. “You better be fucking grateful that I like to talk,” he says, turning to smirk at Eddie and Sarah, “I swear to god, sitting alone with these two is like watching paint dry.”

 

“Is not!” Stan snaps.

 

“You guys _never_ speak!”

 

“Because you do all of it for us!”

 

Across the gym, Sarah’s friends are giving her pleading looks and motioning for her to come back over. Evidently, she takes this as the cue to leave. “I’m gonna go back,” she says, turning to look sweetly at Eddie.

 

Eddie nods, and suddenly he feels a whole lot less nauseous. “Okay.”

 

“But I’ll be back for the dance,” she assures him, and _shit,_ he spoke too soon. It goes without saying what _the dance_ is. The _slow_ dance. The dance where it’s just the two of them and a bunch of other couples and they’re going to be _alone_ basically and it’s supposed to be _romantic_ and she might try to _kiss_ him and suddenly Eddie finds himself fumbling around in his back pocket for his inhaler.

 

As Sarah walks off, Richie nudges him. “Everything steady with Eddie-Spaghetti?”

 

“What? Yeah. I’m totally great.”

 

Richie studies him for a long moment. There’s something about the way he’s staring at Eddie — with a heaviness, _searching_ and _concerned_ — that makes the rest of the room kinda fade away. Like, the volume of the entire dance gets turned down a few notches and everyone else has just… disappears. It’s just Richie looking at Eddie, Eddie looking at him, and this weird, confusing _something_ tugging at Eddie’s heartstrings.

 

It’s a moment that lasts too long and leaves Eddie feeling completely lost as soon as it’s over.

 

“A-Are you sure you’re okay, E-Eddie?” Bill asks, interrupting whatever the _hell_ that was.

 

“You look like you’re going to be sick,” Stan comments, wrinkling up his nose a little bit.

 

The chaotic bustle of the dance comes back in full force, and suddenly Eddie realizes how hard his head is pounding and how shaky his legs feel. “I-I think I need to step out for a moment,” he admits.

 

“Then we’ll come with!” Richie shrugs, clapping Eddie on the back.

 

Before Eddie can protest, Stan and Bill are rising from their chairs and eagerly following Richie out. Eddie sighs long and hard before going after them.

 

Immediately, he’s enveloped in the cooler and fresher air of the hallway. It’s like a slap waking him from a bad dream. As he and his friends walk together, the world comes into focus again. This is normal, _familiar_. Well, except for the whole going-to-the-bathroom-together thing, as Richie tactfully points out seconds later.

 

“God, I can’t believe we’re all in here together like a bunch of girls,” Richie snorts as they enter the boys’ room. Thankfully, it’s empty. The music is muffled and sounds worlds away as Eddie walks over to the sink and looks in the mirror. Staring back at him is a kid who looks scared, tired, and yeah, kinda sick. Eddie grimaces and turns on the faucet, splashing some water over his face in an attempt to clean himself up a little.

 

“Better?” Richie asks.

 

Again, there’s that concern. It hovers between them, like an almost _real_ thing; buzzing on the peripherals of Eddie’s reality.

 

He nods. “Yeah. Good.”

 

( _Now._ )

 

“Good,” Richie grins, “Because you looked like shit.”

 

And just like that, that hovering concern disappears like a popped bubble, and Eddie’s frowning at Richie, disappointed, but not surprised. “Gee, thanks.”

 

“Don’t mention it, Eds,” Richie smiles, poking Eddie’s cheek.

 

“Fuck off, Rich,” Eddie snaps, squirming away.

 

“Aw, you know you love it, cute stuff,” he teases.

 

“Don’t call me cute!” Eddie snaps again, glaring at Richie.

 

Richie’s face falters, and for a fleeting second he actually looks worried. It comes and goes though, just like everything seems to with them, and soon he’s settled back into his usual easy smirk. “Jesus, Eds,” he mutters, “You’re prickly tonight.”

 

“A-Are you nervous?” Bill asks. He’s leaning against one of the stall doors, looking slightly unsure of what to do with himself, “A-About the dance?”

 

“I don’t know,” Eddie looks down at his shoes. “Maybe. Kind of.”

 

( _absolutely definitely 100%_ )

 

“It’s just a dance,” Stan says tiredly, “I’ve had to dance with my cousins at weddings and stuff, it’s no big deal.”

 

“But this is _different_ ,” Eddie stresses, “I mean, we’re not — I don’t…we can’t...”

 

His friends stare at him blankly.

 

“I-I don’t know what to do!” Eddie finally exclaims. It’s not entirely true, it doesn’t fully express all the stupid emotions he’s got clambering around in his brain right now, but it’s the easiest way to express it at the moment.

 

Stan looks awkwardly to Bill. “Well, you just…”

 

“Y-You put your h-hands on her w-waist…”

 

“And sort of…”

 

“S-Sway,” Bill finishes. They both look unsure of themselves.

 

Richie snorts as he tries to stifle back a laugh. “Hey, assholes, why don’t you give us a demonstration while you’re at it?”

 

“F-fuck off, Richie.”

 

Eddie feels his cheeks grow warm as he tries to imagine _swaying_ with Sarah. “I know that I have to do _that_ ,” he huffs, “But I don’t...I mean...what if she tries to talk to me? Or am I supposed to say something to her?”

 

“Tell her she reminds you of your mom!” Richie wheezes, unable to hold back his laughter now, “I’m sure that’ll really win her over!”

 

“You’re an asshole, Richie,” Eddie says miserably.

 

“T-Tell her she looks p-pretty,” Bill says, disregarding Richie.

 

“But she’s _not_ ,” Richie giggles, “She’s like...a 6.5 out of 10, at most.”

 

“I’d say 7.5,” Stan argues.

 

This catches Bill’s interest. “Y-you guys have a rating system?”

 

“ _Guys,_ ” Eddie cuts in, trying to get them back on track.

 

“Sorry, Eddie,” Bill and Stan reply. Richie just shrugs indifferently. He turns to the mirror and pulls out a comb, humming an Elvis Presley song under his breath while he fixes his hair.

 

Bill comes over to stand next to Eddie. “W-What are you worried about m-most, anyways?”

 

Eddie hesitates for half a second, breathing in, but then it just comes out in a tumble; “What if she tries to kiss me?”

 

Richie’s head snaps in their direction. “I thought you said you weren’t going to kiss her.”

 

His voice is flat and disinterested, but there’s something… false about it. Like he’s trying to seem more nonchalant than he actually is.

 

“I said _I_ wouldn’t kiss _her_ ,” Eddie says. “But what if she just… goes for it?”

 

“Jeez, do you really think you’re that much of a chick magnet, Eds?”

 

“I don’t know even why she asked me out in the first place. How am I supposed to tell what she’ll do next?!”

 

“G-Girls are confusing,” Bill nods with a frown.

 

“Just close your eyes, don’t move, and it’ll be over in a couple of seconds,” Stan tells Eddie.

 

Richie turns around with a raised eyebrow. “Been kissing your cousins, too, Stan?”

 

“Fuck you, Richie.”

 

“You guys aren’t helping,” Eddie bursts out. He pushes away from the wall, rubbing his eyes. He doesn’t think he can tell them that he doesn’t _want_ to kiss Sarah, that he doesn’t think she’s cute _at all_ , because that’s weird, right? Even Richie, who’s been shitting all over her from the start, thinks she’s a 6.5—to Eddie, she’s just… nothing.

 

“Well what _would_ help?” Richie asks. “Practice?”

 

Bill and Stan both snort, but Richie doesn’t. For half a second, Eddie thinks he might actually be serious, which both terrifies him and makes him feel… something _else_.

 

(Something _good_.)

 

But then Richie grins. “Just gettin’ off a good one, Eds.”

 

“Yeah, right,” Eddie tries to smile and fails epically. “Funny.”

 

Bill pats his shoulder. “You’ll b-be okay, Eddie,” he assures. “J-Just don’t get too w-worked up, y’k-know?”

 

Eddie shrugs, still caught up on the _something_ that keeps draping over him like a blanket and suffocating him. “Right.”

 

“We should get back,” Stan says.

 

Richie pockets his comb. “Hot date?”

 

Stan flips up his middle finger as he brushes past, holding the door open for Bill. Eddie’s about to follow when Richie grabs his arm

 

( _something; good; right_ )

 

and tugs him back a pace. Eddie feels panic rise in his throat, at the movement and this whole night and the stupid situation with Sarah, who he’s definitely gonna have to dance with, or worse.

 

“What now, Richie?” Eddie snaps.

 

Really, it’s pretty rude, but Richie hasn’t done much helping this whole time. As a matter of fact, he’s only made it ten times worse with every teasing remark. But it still surprises Eddie when he shrinks back just a touch, light fading from his eyes, guard falling over his face.

 

“Nothin’, Eds,” he says, giving Eddie the fakest smile he’s ever seen in his life. “Just don’t trip.”

 

Eddie’s arm lowers to his side. “Right,” he nods. “Thanks, Rich.”

 

“Anytime, Eds.”

 

Richie walks past him, back to the world of blaring pop music and girls with dresses that have too many bows.

 

Eddie’s left alone in the bathroom, staring at the white tile wall, confused for absolutely no real reason.

 

( _right?_ )

 

* * *

 

 

They sit around for a little while longer, joking and shoving, and it feels almost normal. Eddie’s almost able to let himself forget about the Sarah situation.

 

But then, when he’s standing by the punch bowl with Stan ladling himself a drink, someone taps on his shoulder.

 

“Edward?”

 

_Oh, fuck me._

 

Eddie sets his cup down and turns to her. Sarah smiles, cheeks flushed and hair coming loose from its style just slightly. She must’ve been dancing with her friends. God, dancing in a group is _so_ much easier than doing it alone with someone.

 

“Slow song,” Sarah says, stating the obvious.

 

Eddie nods. “Yup.”

 

“So… you wanna…?”

 

He hesitates, looking over her shoulder at all the other couples that are slow dancing to _Paul Anka_. He really wants to throw up.

 

Then Stan gives him a shove, square between his shoulder-blades and almost pushing him right into Sarah. She takes advantage of it, grabbing one of his hands and pulling him out onto the floor.

 

There’s an awkward fumbling of limbs; she sets his hands on her waist for him, and then rests hers on his shoulders. After about two seconds, she tugs him a little closer.

 

“You don’t have to be nervous,” Sarah says, lip quirking up. God, she probably thinks it’s _cute_ . She probably thinks he’s nervous because he _likes her_ or something.

 

“Sorry,” Eddie says, glancing down at his feet.

 

The song continues to softly play over the speakers, and though it’s probably meant to be soothing, Eddie finds himself missing the hectic music from earlier. It was much easier to disappear into the crowd when everyone else was loud and energetic. Right now, with Sarah in his arms, Eddie feels painfully exposed, like everyone’s watching them (he knows it’s probably not true, _but still_ ).

 

“You know,” Sarah starts swaying a little more, not looking at him but above him, like maybe she’s nervous too, “I’ve had a crush on you since the first grade.”

 

_Oh, fuck._

 

“O-Oh?”

 

“Yeah,” she shrugs, all delicate and unassuming and perfectly Sarah Peterson. “You always wore those dorky overalls, and one time I saw you with flowers in your hair and I just thought you were the prettiest, y’know?”

 

His cheeks flame at her words, and at the memory that surfaces; him and Richie under that big oak tree on the playground, basking in the shade it’d offered. Eddie had been laying on his back with his eyes closed while Richie placed the tops of daisies in his curls, rambling about random stuff like Superman and the Muppet Show and whatever else he’d liked back then.

 

“Um,” he says now, biting his lip.

 

Sarah’s still smiling, eyes far off and distant like she’s thinking about that day, too.

 

(Only it was different for her; she’s just some girl who likes the idea of him. She likes _Edward_ , not _Eddie_.)

 

Past her, on the edges of the dance floor, Richie’s paired off with some skinny blonde girl who’s almost the same height as him. Something about the sight of him makes the hair on the back of Eddie’s neck stand up, but he doesn’t know why, and he’s sick of that feeling. He’s sick of it but he can’t take his eyes away.

 

And her; she’s laughing at something he’s said, head thrown back. Richie has that satisfied grin that means he _really got off a good one_.

 

 _When the fuck did that happen?_  Eddie feels his stomach drop about three solid inches at the sight. His breath starts to quicken.

 

“Eddie?” Sarah murmurs, voice low, anxious, hopeful.

 

Eddie turns to look back at her. That’s when he notices Sarah is leaning forward. He can feel her frame pressing into his, and suddenly his senses are overwhelmed with the scent of bubblegum and lavender shampoo, and her eyes are closing, and it’s all too much, and he can’t _breathe —_

 

“I-I have to, um—I have to go, I’m sorry—”

 

“Wait, what?!”

 

Eddie sputters wordlessly. His throat is constricting, growing tighter by the second, and he’s honestly terrified that he’s going to pass out right here and now.

 

“I’m sorry!” He finally manages to gasp, and then he’s pulling out of her grasp, pushing past her, and running out of the gym.

 

He doesn’t know where he’s going, he just has to get _away._ He runs until he can’t hear that stupid damn song anymore and he’s completely alone in the dark hallway of the 8th grade wing.

 

When he finally comes to a stop, he can barely breathe. He frantically grabs his inhaler from his back pocket and takes several pumps of air, hands shaking the entire time.

 

So, that went...horribly.

 

As his breathing evens out, Eddie replays the last couple minutes on a loop. Sarah, admitting she had a crush on him. Sarah, trying to kiss him. Sarah, left alone and confused on the dance floor.

 

The more Eddie thinks about her, the worse he feels, so he forces himself to stop. Stop thinking, stop worrying, stop... _everything_. He just wants to go home, hide in his room, and forget that this entire night ever happened.

 

Eddie closes his eyes and slumps against the row of lockers behind him, sinking down onto the floor. He’s seriously considering sneaking into the main office to use the phone and call his mom when —

 

“Eds?”

 

His head snaps up, breath catching in his throat again, fingers tightening around his inhaler—but of course it’s only Richie; who else would call him that?

 

(Who else has a death wish?)

 

He’s standing a few feet away from Eddie, hands in his pockets and a cautious look on his face. Even though he looks harmless, Eddie still slumps his shoulders in exhaustion anyway.

 

“Not now, Rich,” Eddie mumbles, closing his eyes again, “I’m not in the mood.”

 

If Eddie has to hear one more joke about kissing Sarah, or screwing Sarah, or how he failed to both kiss and screw Sarah, he’s pretty sure he’s gonna shut down. Like, they’ll have to carry him out of the school on a stretcher, or something, and his mom will _literally_ kill him.

 

Richie shuffles his feet. “I just—” He begins, and there’s something so _weird_ and _different_ about his voice that Eddie can’t help but open his eyes to look at him skeptically.

 

“You just what?” Eddie asks.

 

“I’m just being a good friend, okay?”  Richie exclaims, frowning slightly, “You looked kinda fucked up back there and I guess I got worried or something.”

 

It’s the most genuine thing Richie’s said in like, forever, and it leaves Eddie honestly feeling a little speechless. He almost wishes that Richie would hastily add a joke about his dick or Eddie’s mom, just to make things normal again. To make it easier to ignore the way Eddie’s heart is starting to beat a little faster and the way his head is spinning.

 

“I’m fine,” Eddie lies.

 

Apparently, his dishonesty is obvious, because Richie takes a step forward. He looks almost… small. _Scared_.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

Richie’s closer to him now. Their shoes are touching and their gazes are locked, searching.

 

For the first time tonight, Eddie decides to tell the full truth. “No,” he says, voice so low it’s barely a whisper.

 

Richie nudges Eddie’s foot with his own. “Wanna talk about it?”

 

Eddie hesitates. “Promise not to laugh?”

 

“Laugh? Me? When have I _ever?_ ”

 

“When can I ever get you to stop?” Eddie counters wryly.

 

“ _Fine,_ ” Richie replies, letting out a long, dramatic sigh, “I’ll listen.” His words are teasing, but he leans a little closer to Eddie and actually stops talking, like he’s genuinely curious about what Eddie has to say.

 

“I don’t like her,” Eddie blurts.

 

“Sarah?”

 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “ _Duh_.”

 

Richie shrugs. “You don’t have to like every girl,” he says. “Just because she asked you out doesn’t mean you have to date her or whatever.”

 

“That’s not…”

 

How does he tell Richie what’s in his head? How does he say, _I don’t think I_ can _like her_ , and _I’ve never had a crush on any girl_ , and _it just doesn’t feel right at all_.

 

Eddie swallows, feeling anxious again. This wasn’t normal, right? He should be thrilled that a girl liked him. He should totally like her back and _want_ to kiss her.

 

So, why doesn’t he?

 

“Well, why don’t you like her?”

 

“I don’t know!” Eddie snaps, because he really doesn’t; she’s nice, and… nice looking, and… there’s nothing _wrong_ with her.

 

Eddie’s beginning to think that there’s something wrong with _him_.

 

“Look, this entire night just fucking sucks, okay?” Eddie says bitterly, “I had to ride here with my mom and she wouldn’t shut the fuck up, and Sarah smelt like fucking gum, and Greta was complaining about everything, and everyone was so loud, and I looked sick the whole time apparently, and then I had a fucking asthma attack and ditched my date who I don’t even _like_ , and now I ruined the slow dance and it’s just been the worst night of my life and I —”

 

“Whoa, Eds, just _relax_ , okay?”

 

Richie kneels down, and suddenly he’s just so _close_ , and Eddie’s got no space and he can’t _breathe_ —

 

“Calm down,” Richie grabs his hand ( _warm_ ) and squeezes. “Take deep breaths, alright?”

 

Eddie tries. He tries really, _really_ hard, but for some reason it’s just not that simple. He can feel himself tensing up and closing off, and all he wants to do is go home and curl up in his bed. He wants to _cry_.

 

“ _Richie_ —”

 

They both fumble for his inhaler. Richie gets a grip on it first. “Bite down on this, alright, Eds?”

 

Eddie nods and does so. A rush of air fills his lungs and he feels his entire body become less wound up.

 

“Good?”

 

He nods. “T-Thanks.”

 

“Yeah, no problem,” Richie says. He settles down fully on the ground, criss-crossing his legs. “So your night sucked?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And you definitely don’t like Sarah?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“And you totally ruined your dance?”

 

“Well, I guess _I_ didn’t ruin it,” Eddie argues. “She totally fucked everything up when she tried to kiss me.”

 

Richie’s eyes go wide. “She tried to _kiss_ you?!”

 

“Yeah, and —”

 

“ _Wow,_ ” Richie continues dryly, “I can’t believe the girl that asked you to be her _date_ to the _dance_ with pink glittery gel pen and _hearts_ wanted to kiss you.”

 

Eddie blushes at Richie’s sarcasm and nudges his foot with his own. “Shut up!” he mutters with a smile, “Anyway, she tried to do it and I flipped out. She even said she had a crush on me and she thought my overalls were dorky and—”

 

“She called them dorky? Excuse me?”

 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “That’s not the point.”

 

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I think they’re totally cute.”

 

Eddie eyes him. “That’s _definitely_ not any consolation.”

 

Richie grins. “So, you wanna try that slow dance again?”

 

“What, go back in?”

 

“ _No,_ ” Richie says, surprisingly forceful. He blushes. “I mean, um, that would be dumb. She’s probably never gonna talk to you again—”

 

“Gee, thanks—”

 

“But we could like, practice for your next one, so it doesn’t go so bad, you know?”

“I honestly don’t think I ever wanna slow dance with anyone ever again,” Eddie says without thinking. The second the words leave his mouth though, he regrets them—because truthfully, the idea of slow dancing with Richie…

 

...doesn’t seem totally, completely, objectively terrible. Like, just as friends, of course. After all, who wouldn’t want to dance with their best friend instead of a total stranger? Plus, Richie said it was just for practice, so it’s not like it’d _mean_ anything…

 

Thankfully, Richie isn’t deterred by Eddie’s dismissive response. “Dance with me anyway,” he shrugs.

 

Then Richie’s holding out a hand, and Eddie’s taking it; letting himself be pulled to his feet, letting Richie guide his arms, letting the space between them get a little bit smaller.

 

“See?” Richie smiles softly (really, that’s the only way to describe it; _soft_ , like he’s looking at his favorite thing). “Not so bad, huh?”

 

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “Huh.”

 

It’s kinda weird at first, just dancing in an empty hallway with Richie. Their breathing is slow and after a few moments, Eddie can hear Richie humming that Elvis song again, giving them more of a rhythm to sway along to.

 

Everything is so much different than it was before. While Sarah’s hands were soft and careful, Richie’s are rough and steady. Eddie had to crane his neck down to look at Sarah, but he’s able to meet Richie at his eye level. He feels kinda bad comparing the two, but he can’t help it. Things with Richie are just... _better._

 

And that’s when Eddie starts thinking about how things with Richie really _are_ better. Like, for all the dick jokes and Mom jokes and stupid voices, Richie’s always been there when Eddie feels like shit. He always knows just what to say to make Eddie start smiling again, even when he really, really doesn’t want to.

 

He’s kind of the best thing that’s ever happened to Eddie in his whole life. Without Richie, he never would have even met Bill or Stan, which is crazy to think about in a terrifying sort of way. Without Richie, he’d still be that sickly little kid, sitting alone at the lunch table, scared out of his mind without a friend in the world. Thinking back to that first day of kindergarten, Richie had made Eddie feel safe, just like he was now.

 

Just like he _always_ did.

 

Before Eddie knows what he’s doing—before he even has a chance to think about it, to second guess, to rationalise why he _shouldn’t_ (and there are so many reasons, an overwhelming amount, but they all get lost in the sea of everything _else_ that Eddie’s feeling), he’s leaning forward and pressing his lips to Richie’s.

 

It’s brief, and probably the stupidest thing he’s ever done

 

(but it also makes his heart skip a beat, and it’s _warm_ , and Richie’s lips are _soft_ )

 

and really, Eddie _doesn’t care_. He doesn’t care, for once, what the consequences might be. It’s pure instinct; quick and painless, like ripping off a band-aid.

 

Richie looks slightly surprised, but he doesn’t really react—not in a totally dramatic or freaked out way, at least. Instead, he just gives Eddie a small, content smile, face a little more red than it was before, and pulls him a tiny bit closer.

 

Eddie rests his head on Richie’s shoulder. His cheeks are flaming and his heart is racing but it doesn’t matter, because this feels _right,_ it feels like _something good._

 

But all good things (easy childhoods, sweet summer afternoons, blissful innocence) eventually come to an end.

 


End file.
